


Beyond the Veil

by Furiyan



Category: Frozen (2013), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Bittersweet, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, these tags can really spoil things...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furiyan/pseuds/Furiyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack Overland moved into his new house, he got a lot more than he bargained for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Random oneshot from a strike of inspiration I had at about 22:30 GMT. It might be grammatically incorrect, or have some inconsistencies, but that's pretty much because it's straight from my mind into the Word document.

He's not going to lie, the first time he saw her, he freaked.

See, Jack Overland is a person that believes in the supernatural, that there are otherworldly goings on that the vast majority of the human race is not privy to. All the things about poltergeists, Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy, he never lost sight of that belief even when he reached the tender age of twenty-five. Most of his friends called him childish and immature for retaining such conviction (though that might have been his propensity to start snowball fights at the drop of a hat, he's not really sure).

He believes, but he's never seen anything that would either confirm said belief, or refute it.

Until he moved to Arendelle.

It started when he had spent his third night in the new house. The real estate agent had said there was something strange about it, a sort of 'sadness' that infused the walls, the floor, even the very air inside. People that had moved into that house prior to his arrival hadn't spent long, and some had barely even unpacked their things before selling it on. It had gotten to the point that Jack had been able to buy the house for a fraction of what it was worth, simply because the real estate company was  _desperate_ to sell it.

When the agent had asked Jack if he was absolutely  _sure_  he wanted it, he replied that a depressing aura wasn't really high on his list of worries right now…and when the woman had then tried to inquire in a less-than-subtly nosy fashion as to why, he had simply ended the conversation and asked for the keys.

Besides, he's only got about a year to live anyway.

Brain tumour, the neurologist had said. Inoperable. The words had hit Jack like a sledgehammer to the face, and yet on some level he expected them. The constant headaches that would become migraines, the occasional loss and then return of his vision, the unrelenting nausea that meant he had once spent an hour in the bathroom trying to keep his stomach  _inside_  his body…not to mention the seizures.

It had taken him a while to come to terms with the fact that he would soon be punching his ticket, and he'd decided that if he was going to meet his maker, it'd be in the city that he had fell in love with at first sight during his stint as a world-roaming journalist.

Arendelle.

Burgess was a close second, but Arendelle stole his heart and never gave it back.

He'd amassed quite a wealth from his job and the reputation he had garnered as an occasionally snarky, honest and well-meaning writer that loved to jot down what each city had to offer. He hadn't taken many things with him. Just a bed, table and chairs, his prized laptop, notepad, and some other necessities – though he couldn't bear to part with the 1920's journalist Trilby that Aster had bought him when he got the job.

But the experience he had when he moved in was the most incredible of his short life.

* * *

It wasn't until the fifth night in that house that he began to sense something was off. He was laid with his laptop in bed, wearing his characteristic blue hooded sweater and brown pyjama pants, adding to his  _Memoirs of a Terminal Journalist_ …which was just his fancy way of saying  _Stuff I Write When My Headaches Let Me._

That's when he heard it, a faint crying that seemed to come from the hallway. It was weak, barely above a whisper, but definitely the sound of sobbing. He'd climbed out of bed (with a little difficulty, doubtless the tumour was starting to mess with his motor functions) and carefully made his way to the hallway. The first thing he noticed was that the light was on.

He  _never_  had the hallway light on in  _any_  of his previous residences.

With a trembling yet curious hand, he had slowly opened the door and let the dim light spill into his room, and with his heart going nineteen-to-the-dozen, his lips cracked and his throat dry, he slowly poked his head through the doorway…and saw nothing. The crying had stopped as well, so he heard nothing too.

His curiosity sated, he merely flicked the light off and returned to bed, chalking up the incident to his ears playing tricks on him, and absent-mindedness regarding the hallway lightbulb.

Yet, when he finally fell asleep, the light came back on.

* * *

He started to feel it in the second week, the sadness that the agent had talked about. It didn't really bother him in a sense…well; it  _did_ , but not enough to warrant leaving. It was a negativity that he could identify with, a melancholy gloom that was all too familiar. He was pretty much suffering it too in his own way, so it wasn't exactly causing him any problems. Besides, he'd got a lot more on his plate.

It was a kind of sorrow, a grief over what might have been rather than what was.

Strangely, though, in amongst the sadness is a comfort, a sort of caring sensation that he later found out was only for him. He had noticed it when he was hunched over the toilet bowl praying to the 'Porcelain God' that his guts would not accompany the foul liquid streaming out of his mouth. Normally he felt self-reproachful disdain and a little anger at the situation, but right then he had felt nothing but calmness, solidarity. The peculiar knowledge that it was all going to be okay.

The weirdest part of it was the sensation of a comforting hand on his shoulder.

That's when the sadness in the house seemed to lift and be replaced with something else.

Two months in, and every time he threw up, he actually felt  _better_. Of course, his memory was starting to go a bit kooky so he couldn't rely on that, but he definitely thought there was more to this house that met the eye.

So he started to take notes on his notepad when his fingers worked and on the laptop when they weren't behaving, because he knew that eventually his memory would fail him…and maybe writing it down would help.

In the hallway, he can hear crying. In the bathroom, he can feel comfort. In the kitchen, he can feel warmth…and in bed, he drifts off to the sensation of fingers stroking his temple with the gentleness of a butterfly's wing.

As he slept, he smiled. He hadn't done  _that_  in a while.

He wasn't sure whether he dreamed it but it went on the notepad nonetheless – the sweet whisper of  _"Sleep well, my love"._

* * *

It's three months in that it hits him. The reason for the sadness, the crying in the hallway, everything.

He's not alone.

A revelation which was made starkly apparent when two robbers decided to swing by his house in the dead of night. Awoken with a start by the sound of breaking glass, he had felt the sensation of his skin crawling and fear settling in his gut, knowing that he was no match for whoever those intruders were. Still, he reached for the baseball bat underneath his bed nonetheless, feeling that if he was to go out, it would be with a bang.

It didn't go well.

He saw the first one, an eyepatch wearing thug climbing the stairs while the second one was helping himself to the already limited selection of kitchen appliances. Jack had swung his bat, but he cursed the ever growing tumour in his brain as the strike went wild and sailed harmlessly over Eyepatch's head.

The next thing he felt was a punch to the diaphragm that ripped the air from his lungs, and his world going topsy-turvy as he was sharply pulled down the stairs.

What happened next was something that he wasn't sure he was seeing whether the next few minutes had actually happened, or in his violence-addled delirium was something his brain had made up for giggles.

Eyepatch was yanked off the stairs like a rope had been tied around his midsection, flying a good couple of metres over Jack's body and impacting the ground with a heavy  _thud_. With a roar of indignant fury, the second robber had dropped the coffee machine he was holding and started towards the prone Jack with the intent of beating the tumour to the punch and snuffing out his existence there and then…but with wide, uncomprehending eyes Jack saw one of his dining chairs fly up a fair distance from the floor and swing itself towards the back of the man's head, impacting his skull with a sickening crunch.

Eyepatch had seen all this, having recovered from his impromptu display of poor aerodynamics, and Jack took a little pleasure in seeing all of the colour drain from his face before tearing himself out of the door, leaving his cohort to his fate.

He had snapped his eyes back to the unconscious man in his open-plan kitchen and for a second, thought he saw a pair of gorgeous, milky legs in kitten heels walking towards him. One blink later, they were gone.

It was all he needed to see…to believe.

* * *

Three days later, with no small amount of finagling with the carers that come each day to check on him (one of them was a rather pretty lady named Rapunzel, who complained of an odd sensation of being unwelcome), and after a lengthy discussion with Arendelle's police, he took himself off to the nearest internet-supplying library, intent on finding out the history of Snow House.

Sat in front of one of the moderately archaic computers, he had typed in Snow House on the ever omniscient Google search engine and found link after link about a murder that had happened within those walls. He would have sat in that library for hours, but as his hand-eye co-ordination started its customary slip – he had to type Snow House five times on one occasion due to an ever increasing instance of typographical errors – he ended up printing off about six website pages worth of information, stuffing it into his bag and leaving the library, intent on doing the 'light reading' at home.

As soon as he had walked through the door upon his return, he was greeted with such a feeling of welcome and warmth that it momentarily took his breath away, and for the first time in a long time he had felt safe and supported. It was like his arrival had brought such happiness and joy, as though simply  _being_  there was a cause for celebration.

Needless to say, the smile that curled his already paling features was one that did not leave for some time.

He had ascended the stairs with no small amount of effort, each step like an ever-growing herculean task, and with a well-earned flop on his bed that nearly knocked his precious laptop onto the floor he pulled the papers out of his bag and began to read.

Each sheet of information said much the same thing, and Jack had wondered why he bothered printing off six of the things when he only needed the one. Three years ago, a young woman's life had been extinguished in this very house by a vicious brute named Hans, who had attempted to do what the two thugs did yesterday. Apparently she was not a woman who took things lying down, and after a lengthy scuffle she ended up defending her house with her life. The police later found her body at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in an elegant, shimmering blue dress with her neck broken, and the body of Hans nearby with a knife protruding from his chest.

They had theorised that he chased her up the stairs and struggled with the blade, and in the midst of combat one of them had lost their footing and fallen down, taking the other with them. During the fatal descent, the knife would have embedded itself in Hans's heart while the woman's life blinked out shortly before that.

The fierce, protective woman went by the name of Elsa, and she was about to go to the opera.

Jack had felt his heart beat with such sorrow upon absorbing the information, his thoughts and his mind reaching out to this woman, whose picture sat proudly at the bottom of the article. She was a pretty, ethereal soul that wore a blonde French braid across one shoulder, ice blue eyes that radiated purpose and kindness, and a smile that could melt hearts.

He didn't care if it was superficial of him, but as soon as he laid his eyes upon her picture, he began to feel the unmistakeable heartache and warmth that could only be associated with one thing.

Love.

Of course, he mentally slapped himself for such a thing. Love at first sight was a fairy tale, something that only existed in stories which were unfortunately no longer relevant in this day and age…yet, he felt it.

* * *

Night had come sooner than he thought, and with the only illumination provided by his trusty laptop sat on the end of his bed, he had laid with his back to the bedroom doorway, lost in thought about this mysterious Elsa. He pictured this woman going about her day to day life; wondering what kind of job she held, what she was like as a person, whether she had any family…what she would have thought of  _him_. Insomnia had kept him awake until the wee hours of the morning, but that could've just been his mind refusing to shut down for the night.

It was then that the hallway light spontaneously poured into the room, casting a rectangular block onto the wall in front of him. He had felt the familiar churning of his gut in response, concerned that either those two thugs had escaped the police or someone else had decided to try their luck.

Slowly, fearfully, he had rolled himself over enough to see…and that's when he damn near fell off the bed in shock.

She was there. Elsa.

Stood in his doorway, with her hands laced together in front of her, gazing at him.

He didn't move after his decidedly unsubtle display of surprise, his wide eyes locked upon the ethereal woman silently waiting at the door. He couldn't believe it. Sure, he believed in the existence of spirits, but he never thought in a million years he would actually  _see_  one. Yet, he knew in his heart that his eyes were  _not_  playing tricks on him, that he was  _not_  hallucinating the woman that died in this house three years ago.

She was actually  _there_.

He had taken a moment to fully explore her with his eyes, to take in every detail. She wore that French braid from the picture, wore that ice-blue dress that she had when she passed away, and her eyes had lost none of the caring and kindness that had undoubtedly been present all her life.

She was looking at him… _at him_ …and she was smiling. He had felt his heart stall in his chest along with his breath, the way it does when you are witness to one of the most beautiful occurrences on Earth. Sliding off the bed, he had ungracefully risen to his feet, and when he stumbled to the left she had actually giggled. It was silent, no sweet laughter escaped her lips but it was there, he didn't miss it. Normally he would have chewed out anyone that had the audacity to laugh at a terminally-ill patient, but for some reason her soundless mirth was infectious.

His steps toward her were slow and measured, as though he was risking her sudden disappearance with each step, and felt nothing but relief when still she remained, gazing at him with crinkled eyes and profound happiness. It was an expression that warmed his heart and sent a surge of joy through his chest – someone that looked at him without pity, without uncertainty. Someone who didn't hide the lack of knowing what to say behind a mask of nonchalance.

When he reached her – and still she remained – his disbelief washed away. His breaths were deep and heavy, but for the first time in a while, despite the headaches his mind was clear. There she was, Elsa, looking at him with nothing but love. He reached a trembling hand with a slowness equal to his steps, inching ever closer to the side of her face, and though he could not feel a thing as the palm of his hand eventually reached her translucent cheek, she seemed to lean into his touch, closing her eyes to enjoy what seemed to be a one-sided sensation.

It was all too surreal for him, yet he  _knew_  without a shadow of a doubt that it was really happening.

He had fallen for a spirit.

* * *

Time inexorably marched on, and Jack accomplished less and less as his body began to fail him three months later.

Food gradually became a chore to eat, so he had elected for things that were easier to swallow. The carers came by with greater frequency as the tasks that he used to be able to undergo himself were firmly in their discretion. Things like administering of painkillers, hygiene maintenance and entertainment became less of a solo act and more of something he had come to rely on from other people. His memory had become worse, and when his friends had come round to visit – ostensibly sensing that time was short – there were times when he found himself at a loss as to their  _names_.

The pain? Verging on unbearable, some days.

The peculiar thing was that whenever the word 'hospice' had been floated around by friend and carer alike, he vehemently refused the suggestion. When asked why, he said that when he died, he would die here. In this house, where he was happy.

Where  _she_  was.

She had protected him, comforted him, cared for him. He would not leave her, would not abandon her to an eternity of loneliness.

He did have  _one_  visitor that he did not expect, however, and it was expertly timed with a short period of mental clarity.

The woman had introduced herself as Anna, and she was the sister of the late Elsa. She had strawberry blonde hair that was woven into two braids sat on each shoulder. Even stuck in bed, Jack was an observant fellow and he could see despite the buoyant expression she wore, there was a deep sadness only associated with loss in her cyan eyes.

And when his eyes flicked to behind her, where Elsa stood by the doorway, he could see the same sadness in hers. In that moment he wanted to reach out to her, to tell her that it was all going to be okay…but as the spirit's eyes met with his, she understood.

As it turned out, Anna had visited because she heard on the grapevine of someone managing to stay in the house for longer than a few weeks. See, she was like Jack in the sense that she also believed in otherworldly things, and was stubbornly possessed of the conviction that her sister still remained in that house. She had come to find out why it was that Elsa had not driven Jack out, why it was him of all people she had taken a shine to.

He couldn't answer that question because he didn't know, nor did he care.

She began to tell him all about her elder sister. Elsa was a woman that cared for all but possessed little tolerance for fools, who would do anything for those she loved and would protect them with every fibre of her being. She held a high position in the local embassy, but chose to remain in this house despite her wealth giving her the choice of any expensive habitat in the city. She loved opera, particularly  _Madame Butterfly_. Chocolate was her weakness, especially Swiss.

She was a woman that loved and cared with all her heart, and as the tears began to fall from both Anna and Jack's eyes in unison; she was a woman that was sorely missed even three years on.

Anna had then asked about Jack, what kind of job he had, what were his hobbies, his likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. He tried to answer her questions as best he could, and when his throat repeatedly became too dry to speak, out of the corner of his eye he could see Elsa reach for the cup of water on his nightstand seconds before Anna's fingers brought it to his lips.

She had then asked him what was wrong, and he had told her. He didn't have long. She asked if he was happy, he said that he was.

Just before she left, she had turned with a warm smile and said "I can see why my sister likes you. Three years ago, she would have loved to have met you."

Jack replied that she already has.

* * *

There's a moment before passing where the body works as it's supposed to. The mind is clear, the vision is sharp and the hearing is acute. To the untrained eye, it's as though there's nothing wrong.

But there is, and it's no more evident than in the sunken, pale features of Jack Overland.

He's surrounded by his friends and family, and even Aster has taken time from his busy schedule to swing by. He's trying to keep a chipper tone to his characteristic Australian drawl, but Jack can easily tell by the cracking of his voice that he's barely holding it together. He knows. Jack knows. They  _all_ know.

What surprised him the most was that even Anna had made an appearance with her husband Kristoff, and her expression was not one of despair or uncertainty, but promise. The look that one gives when they know everything is going to be alright. Jack keeps up with the questions and the conversation as best he can, but when his body slowly began to shut down for the final time, and his eyelids became as heavy as rock, he catches sight of a smiling face, ice blue eyes that radiate love and compassion, and a braid that sits on the left shoulder, possessed by a woman that stands just behind and to the right of Anna.

The woman who, visible or not, has been with him every step of the way. The woman who, in her own way, told him that there was nothing to fear.

The woman whose eyes sent an unmistakeable message - "I love you. Don't be afraid."

As his last breath escapes his lips when death takes him, he whispers one name.

Elsa.

* * *

Six months have passed since Jack Overland left the earth, and the estate agent is busy typing away at a new advertisement for an apartment on the other end of the city. The knowledge that  _two_  deaths have occurred in that house weighs heavily on her mind, and prior to selling the house to a family of four, she had wondered if  _anyone_  would be able to stay in that home for longer than a week.

Yet, three months since the sale of the property, and she hasn't heard anything that would indicate dissatisfaction.

There's a tinkling of the bell above the door, and the agent looks up to the new arrival…and feels her stomach begin to drop. The mother of that particular family stands there, scanning the large agency for the familiar face, and as her eyes lock with the agent's, she finds who she's looking for. The agent begins to dread the next conversation, something like "We're sorry…but we don't want to live there anymore. We'd like to sell it".

But that's not how it goes, because the first words out of the woman's mouth are "thank you."

The agent is beyond puzzled at this point. It's practically a routine with selling that house, so for someone to turn up and thank her is something that pulls the rug under her feet. She murmurs a question why, a query that the mother is only too happy to answer.

"There is nothing but love in that house. From the second that we walked through the front door, we felt so much compassion and joy that we couldn't help but cry. I must admit, the kids were a little weirded out by it…but what we felt was so raw. We knew right at that moment we would be living there for a long time. I just wanted to drop by and thank you, for finding my family the perfect home."

The agent, who is completely bowled over at this point, can only stammer  _"you're very welcome"_ in return, and as the mother flashes a grateful smile while turning to leave, she wonders if the Curse of the Snow House has finally been lifted.

What the mother chose not to divulge was that the house was protected with love and compassion, but not from them.

On the third night of their stay, the hallway light had clicked on for no apparent reason, and wielding a heavy golf club as she investigated the sudden illumination, she saw something that took her breath away.

A man and a woman, faintly translucent, with his hand caressing her left cheek and her hands upon his chest, gazing silently upon each other's face with love that could last an eternity.

She wore a dress of blue, and a blonde braid that sat on her left shoulder, and he wore a dark blue hooded jumper, with hair as white as the winter snow.

Two lovers, beyond the veil.


End file.
